Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee (8 page)

He could tell it was money just by feeling it. "You've already paid me a generous retainer."

"Open it."

Westmore almost toppled out of the chair. More bands
of cash.

"That's twenty-five thousand dollars, in addition to your
retainer. You can keep that envelope, too, even if you don't take the job. I need to tell you something right off the bat,
that you must agree to not repeat."

Westmore couldn't take it anymore, so he simply said
what was on his mind. "Mrs. Hildreth-look. I want
money as much as the next guy but ... This is crazy. You
don't know me from Adam. Theoretically I could say yes,
take this money, and still talk."

"Don't be silly! There's a non-disclosure agreement in
there too!"

"Oh." He looked, pulled it out and read it. Pretty cut and
dry. But this woman is definitely serious.

"Sign it, and the money's yours. And if you repeat what
I'm about to tell you, you'll be very very sorry."

He couldn't resist grinning. "Is that a threat?"

"That is a stone-cold promise, Mr. Westmore. I don't
simply have a lawyer. I have a law f rm, and if you break this
confidence, they will bury you so deep that you won't see
light for a hundred years."

She wasn't smiling.

"I believe it," he said, and signed the agreement. He set
the money down, numb in the disbelief.

Vivica was looking at him, her eyes suddenly far away.

"I'm ready," Westmore said.

"Several times already, you've referred to my 'late' husband. Well, Mr. Westmore, I don't believe that he's dead.
There's no evidence to that effect."

Westmore frowned. "I read the obituary. Suicide."

"It's fake."

Westmore sat up more alertly. "You mean you-"

"Money talks. I paid the right persons to menufacture
the obituary and the police findings."

"So who's in your husband's gave? There was a service
listed about a week after the suicide."

"Not my husband. My people assure me of it."

Westmore rubbed his face. "The rumor is that your husband killed a whole bunch of innocent people with an ax-"

"No one is innocent, Mr. Westmore. Believe me, none of
those people in that house were innocent."

"Fine. What exactly do you want me to do?"

"Find out what happened on that night. I believe that
my husband is still alive. I believe that he's still in that
house."

Westmore's gaze felt just as far away as hers now He
could only look at her through a blur.

"You're a reporter. Report. To me. And I want you to
monitor the other people who will be there."

"Be where?"

"The Hildreth Mansion. I've hired some other people to
investigate the events of the night in question."

Other people? More reporter? Christ, I hope not. He could
see a bad scene coming already. "It was a couple weeks ago,
right?"

"Yes. The night of April 3rd."

"And you think your husband's still in the house?"

"I believe that he may be." She gave him a card. "This is
my cell phone number. You can call me anytime, and Karen
will be at your disposal too. There's also a lot of visual evidence, still in the house. Take your time examining it. It will
be a bit grueling, but ... that's what I'm hiring you for."

"What kind of visual evidence?"

"DVD's and digital master tapes. My husband owned an
adult movie business. He bought the company outright
some time ago, and relocated its studio and offices to the
mansion. I'm talking about pornography, Mr. Westmore.
My husband was a very sexually obsessed man. He surrounded himself with sexual energy."

Yeah, this is aazy, all right. This woman's paying me a ton of
money to ... watch porn?

"Don't share anything exclusive you discover with the
others; that's essential. I only trust Karen, and Mack, my security man. The others I'm not sure about. I have no reason
to trust them. They're all a bunch of writers, too."

I knew it. "What can you tell me about the mansion?"

"It's ... indescribable. It's like nothing you've ever seen.
And it has ... a rich past, which I'm sure you'll discover
along the way." Then she smiled.

This was too many curve balls too fast. "Mrs. Hildreth,
you're paying me an awful lot of money, and I'm still not
exactly sure what you want me to do."

"Ultimately, I want to know where my husband is, and
beyond that, I want to know the limits of his obsession. My
husband was preparing for something he thought would occur in the future. I want to know what-exactly-it was he
was preparing for. And I want to know when. Remember
that above all else."

At this point all Westmore could do was slump back in
the wire chair. He put his hands up. "I don't know what
you mean.

When Vivica Hildreth turned her head slightly, her angle
shrouded her face in darkness.

"I don't believe in the Devil, Mr. Westmore. But my husband did."

Nyvysk had no sensitivities, and he was grateful for that.
He'd seen enough to believe it all, though. How could he
not? In Nineveh he'd been sent to the site of the Library of
Ashurbanipal-in the '80s before the Iraq wars-and had
failed in exorcizing some thing out of a local woman who
was speaking what sounded like Zraetic, the first protodi-
alect of the Tabernacle of God. It was supposedly the language that was spoken before Adam and Eve. Nyvysk had
stood there in his Catholic raiments, The Rites of Exordsm
limp in his hand, and then watched a young Kurd in his
twenties channel out a noxious endoplasm from the
woman's eyes after which she vomited up a pile of live
frogs. Nyvysk remembered the young man's name-
Saeed.Nnd remembered the effect of his ministration. The local woman had been cured on the spot, leaving Nyvysk to
stand there, a fascinated failure.

He'd seen all that, and a lot more.

He pulled the van into a Citgo station once he'd gotten
off of 275. I don't know where I'm going, he realized with a
chuckle. He wouldn't have even taken this job; he liked to
think of himself as a part-time retiree. And he didn't really
need the money-he made plenty of that with his books,
even after the fifty-percent he gave to the Church. But
there'd been something about the woman's invitation ...

And Nyvysk, in all truth, was bored.

He drove a long Ford step van, white, innocuous. He'd
taken the wrong turn-off and wound up in this frowzy
beach town. Several construction workers were filling up
their trucks, one nodded to him as though they were comrades of the same trade. Of course, right now, with the
banged-up van and scruffy beard, Nyvysk could pass for a
blue-collar redneck himself. The thought amused him: Your
truck's full of tools. Care to guess what my truck's full oft

His first name was Alexander. He was six-foot-five and
sixty years old. So much field work for the Diocese had left
him rugged, tough. Not your typical priest. IJ they could see
me now, he thought, catching his reflection in the gasstation's plate glass. I look like somebody in ZZTopµ Gray hair
down to the bottom of his ribs, and a grayer beard to his
sternum. Workboots, faded jeans, baggy t-shirt. He tended
to dress like this most of the time; a counselor at the mental
health rectory in Richmond had told him that it was proof
of his repentance, a concerted effort on his part to appear
unattractive "to other-er ... to those who might be attracted to you in a prurient sense," a sideswipe reference to
his weakness. The beard and the long hair, too. For decades he'd had a buzz-cut and been clean shaven save for a moustache.

I guess I'm a pretty content mess, he thought.

The only thing that didn't look the part was the large
black cross around his neck.

A middle-aged couple crossing the lot on foot were arguing, a blonde wearing an amethyst necklace and a goateed
guy in a t-shirt that read JOY DIVISION. They held hands
but looked like they couldn't stand each other. I better not
ask them, Nyvysk thought. Inside when he paid for his gas,
an old man at the counter, wearing a cross, gave him the eye
when he asked, "Could you tell me how to find Prospect
Hill? I'm looking for a place called the Hildreth Mansion."

"I've no idea. Next in line!"

Ah, yes, Nyvysk thought, and reflected the first Book of
Peter. "Honor all men. Love the brotherhood." God be with you
anyway. Back outside, the couple stood by the pumps, embracing, kissing fervently. "I fucking adore you," the goateed guy whispered to the woman.

That was quick. Love is everywhere. Nyvysk asked, "Pardon
me but have you heard of Prospect Hill? I'm trying to find
the-"

"Hildreth House?" the woman asked, green eyes shining
like emeralds.

"Yes," Nyvysk said. "Good guess:'

The goateed guy pushed wire-rim glasses up his nose.
"It's a pretty famous place ... and it's the only building on
the hill. Take a left onto Prospect Hill Road off 66th Street,
and that'll take you there. But once you get there, you'll
never be seen again."

Nyvsyk's brow ridged.

"It's haunted," added the girl.

"We're kidding!" the guy said. He had a tattoo on his forearm that read NARRATION IS YOUR ENEMY
"There was a mass-murder there last month. Kooky rich
guy cut up a bunch of house guests with an ax:'

Now Nyvysk smiled. "So I've heard. Thank you for the
directions." Nyvysk unconsciously diddled with the large
cross around his neck. "Let me leave you now with this:
'Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord.'
Oh, and Go Devil Rays."

.`Cool,,, the guy said.

"Why are you going to the Hildreth Mansion?" the girl
asked.

"I'm a demonologist and a technical paranormal investigator," Nyvysk said, and got back in his van and drove away.

Five miles and a bridge behind him, Nyvysk spotted a tiny
roadsign on the thoroughfare for Prospect Hill Road. Then
he winced over a pot-hole, heard something clatter in the
back. Probably the influx tubes of the chromatograph, he feared.
Or my $50,000 barometer. Then he saw another sign: JCT -
STATE ROUTE 666. You've got to be kidding me, he
thought. He peered incredulous at the map and saw that the
road did indeed exist but thankfully led elsewhere. Then he
slowed in the right lane, watching for his turn.

A Muslim-nineteen or twenty perhaps--was hitchhiking. Nyvysk's eyes locked, and he felt something tighten in
his chest. The hitcher reminded him of the young Kurd
who'd exorcized the woman in Nineveh, the boy named
Saved. The memory seemed to fog about his head: how,
when the rite was over, the boy smiled at the younger, slimmer, and much-less-shaggy Nyvysk. How their eyes had
locked. The silent invitation mouthed on the Kurd's lips
and how hurt those eyes had appeared when Nyvysk sighed
and turned away.

Nyvysk touched his cross. Thank you, God, for giving me
the strength to never break my vows ...

He knew it was completely disconnected but it seemed
that his quelled libido had been raging over the past few
days-since he'd gotten the letter from Vivica Hildreth.

Everywhere he went now it seemed that lust was being
aimed at him from so many wide-open eyes.

He bit his lip and drove on, watching the boy fade in his
rearview.

He blanked his mind for quite a while.

"This can't be it," he complained to himself later but
took a hard left turn anyway. He knew the interstate north
was coming up, and it didn't look like there was room for
too many more turns. The road wasn't on the map, either,
but there was a listing in the phone book. Maybe that couple
at the gas station are having a laugh on the old guy right now ...
But just as he'd lost his faith, less than a hundred feet up the
gravel road he'd just turned on to, the bent sign stood:
PROSPECT HILL RD. Why put the damn sign here! It
should be on the corner--you know-where people can SEE it!
Then another dissociated thought flicked in his head.

Maybe they didn't want people to see it ...

The road wound through a dense forest full of weeping
willows and very strange, very tall pine trees. He noticed
not one of the palm trees that Florida was known for. Spanish moss hung off branches of the trees which lined the
road, creating a green curtain. Who would put a house--a
mansion no less-in the middle of the woods? The road kept
winding upward, and seemed to grow more narrow.
Branches, like skeletal hands, scratched against the van's side
panels, and overhead, more, broader, branches reached across
the road, joining, forming a webwork tunnel that filtered out the sunlight. Nyvysk soon felt certain that he was on
the wrong road when he was at last emptied into a green
clearing surrounded by a ring of trees.

And there the Hildreth Mansion stood, as if in wait.

My God, it's huge...

Nyvysk slowed, then stopped to stare at the place. What
faced him was a Gothic immensity, five stories of gray brick
staring back. Stained-glass windows glittered like bizarre dark
gems; oddly placed stone verandas seemed ensconced into the
heavy walls. Were the high corner-posts of the building
made of iron? Things he guessed were decorative gargoyles
sat perched on intricate cornices like transfigured crows. Bow
windows with sloping, slate half-roofs extruded from the first
story's east and west wings, and stained-glass windows-these
diamond-shaped-were set along the sides of the mansion's
central structure. Parapets on either side extended over sloping dormers of the fifth floor, rung with spiked cresting.

Nyvysk-though he wasn't psychic at all-could feel the
ill-omen hovering over the place, like a murky cloud.

He actually got out of the van to look further, still a hundred yards away. The feel in his gut, and simply the way the
sun was half-blocked by the mansion's highest peak, reminded him of a time when he was in Jerusalem, just north
of the Damascus Gate. Here, he'd succeeded in an exor-
cism---an infant-and when he'd looked up he saw a similar murkiness just over the area where Christ had likely been
buried. He closed his eyes now but could still see the sunlight through the lids, and he prayed, Yes, God, I'm really going to need courage this time. Please give me courage.